


he was here

by ava_kay



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, M/M, death cure, newtmas - Freeform, newtmas angst, post tdc, tdc fix it fic, thomas is mourning, thominho - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 19:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20605757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_kay/pseuds/ava_kay
Summary: After the events of the Death Cure movie.As Thomas struggles to come to terms with Newt’s fate and his role in it, Minho and Brenda may be able to shed a new light on the topic. How did Newt feel about Thomas? And how did Thomas feel about Newt?





	he was here

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this because this fic made me sad. read it and be sad with me. https://archiveofourown.org/works/13842513

It bothers Thomas that they were so close.

Really, it was Thomas’ own fault, no matter how you slice it. He should have listened to Teresa earlier. He shouldn’t have let Newt come with him to rescue Minho. He should have waited for the serum. He should have noticed Brenda was cured on his own. He should have knocked Newt out, stalled for a few more moments. So many things, little things, yet they could have made the biggest difference in the world.

He’s had half a mind to go back to the last city, just to see if there’s any evidence Newt even existed. A photo, a video, even some shuck footage from the maze. Anything. Something to remember him by that isn’t a piece of paper. Of course, Thomas treasures that piece of paper with his whole heart. It keeps him going. Keeps him there. Whether it’s out of guilt, Thomas couldn’t tell you, but it’s kept him afloat all the same.

Maybe “afloat” is a generous term. He’s alive, which is more than he could say for most of his friends. Newt says he’d do it all over again. Thomas would like to believe that. But he also said he wasn’t scared. At first, Thomas gladly took that comfort, but the more he let himself think about it, the clearer it became to him that it was only a lie. Something to lull him into feeling less guilt. Of course, Newt would do that. 

Sometimes, Thomas can picture Newt on the beach. It’s more like an intense daydream, just short of hallucinating. A fleeting image of him sitting on the sand, a barely there, content smile on his lips as he watches the sun set. It’s always at sunset, every time Thomas manages to catch it. He tends to do that for Newt. It’s almost always the reason he does  _ anything.  _ He has to do this because Newt would have wanted to, he must do that because Chuck would’ve liked it, he should participate in this because Teresa would’ve made him. All for them. His heart is never in it, but he hopes that somehow, they can live vicariously. Crazy, right?

He’s entertained the possibility that he really has lost it. How ironic would it be, after avoiding the flare? The fact that he finds it humorous at times only adds to his theory. Of course, he’s got people he can speak to about that. But why should he? They can’t bring them back. They can’t bring him back.

The only person that’s managed to make a dent in his wall is Brenda. He keeps up appearances in front of Minho, despite probably wanting to speak to him  _ most  _ about the missing link in their trio. But what then? Minho seems to be doing better, so why would Thomas risk dragging him down with him? 

No, he won’t do that to his best friend. Brenda, however, took the only approach with “I don’t want to talk about it” Thomas that actually worked. 

It came one night as they sat by the fire. Thomas was the only one left after a number of hours, and he’d sat himself against the wooden log rather than on it. With the crackling sounds and distant hum of people still talking, Thomas tried to hear Newt’s voice. A few choice words would pop out at him. Ones that have stuck in his head. But what if his brain was feeding him the wrong inflection there? What if he really put his emphasis on a different part—

“I saw the way he’d look at you.”

Thomas turned around, nearly jumping back onto the log. But he recognized Brenda’s voice quick enough to relax. “What do you mean?”

Brenda only walked over, sitting on the other side of the log and staring into the fire. Thomas thought it was her way of giving him a shred of privacy. The freedom to feel whatever he needed to. “In those six months. I noticed right away. Neither of you are subtle. When you’d speak, it was the most important thing in the world to him. He’d hang on every word, like you were about to tell us all the meaning of life.” 

Thomas didn’t need any clarification on who she meant. He clenched his jaw, bringing his knees closer to his chest. It took him three tries to get his words out. “He’s just like that. Listening to everyone.”

“But you know that’s not really true, don’t you,” Brenda said. She let out a small laugh. “He’d ask me how you were holding up.  _ Me.  _ Said you probably told me more than you’d tell him.”

Thomas glanced at her, then away before she could get the chance to meet his gaze. He didn’t want her to see the tears in his eyes. “I never kept anything from him.” 

“That’s what I said. But he worried. No matter what was going on, he’d find the time for that. I’m not so sure he worried about anyone else like that, though,” Brenda said. 

Thomas couldn’t help but think of the letter. Then, the story of how he’d broken his leg. Nobody took the time to ask how anyone else was doing, because the answer was always obvious. They were bad, every single one of them. But Newt knew what it was like to be a step above it. Hopeless. The feeling of there being no light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe that’s why he’d ask. To make sure nobody was feeling that way too.

He didn’t realize he’d started crying until he was sniffling. “I should have checked on him more,” he said. 

“No. Don’t do that to yourself,” Brenda said. “We all were going through the hardest times of our lives. We didn’t have time to play therapist. But he cared about you in every way he knew how. I’ve never seen someone believe in another person like that, either.”

And Thomas let him down. “Why are you talking about this?” Thomas asked, no longer trying to hide the fact that tears were falling.

“Because I know how guilty you feel,” Brenda said. “He wouldn’t want that for you. Better than anyone, he knew what you were capable of. Everything he did was his own choice, and sticking with you would never be something he’d regret.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Thomas said, his voice small.

“If he was here, he’d be agreeing with me. Calling you a shuckhead, or whatever words you guys use all the time,” Brenda said.

That earned a watery laugh from Thomas. It was short lived, but there. “I could use that.”

There was a few moments of silence before Brenda spoke again. 

“He loved you, Thomas. He’d be glad you’re here. Safe. And he wouldn’t blame you for a moment of what happened.” 

Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the night. 

_ He loved you.  _ Those are the words that sparked the curiosity back into Thomas. Every night for the past week, they’ve played over and over in his head. They pop into his brain every time he thinks about Newt, which is a  _ lot.  _ Especially when he reaches for the necklace, or reads the letter. It’s like the words float between each sentence. 

Maybe the worst part is the fact that he’ll never know. Thomas is curious by nature. Never leaving a stone unturned. But this? This is an immovable boulder. No matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be able to see what’s beneath. 

All he can do is think about how  _ he  _ feels. So, one night, after everyone has gone to sleep, Thomas walks along the beach alone. He walks until he’s reached the rocks, and as he goes to sit against them, he hears movement. 

“Hello?” Thomas asks, looking around. It’s dark and freezing, so he could just be imagining something between the wind and the waves. But he’s got an inkling his instincts aren’t wrong about this one.

“Who is that?” Minho appears from behind one of the rocks, searching until his eyes land on Thomas. “Thomas? What’re you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Thomas says. 

Minho sighs, walking over. “I’m here almost every night. I sleep better in the day.” 

“Really? Why?” It’s not like they’ve got very good blocks from the sun—which burns brighter and more brilliantly than Thomas can imagine it used to.

“Nightmares, man. Shuck nightmares. Every time. I don’t want to start freaking out like a sissy in front of everyone, so I just sleep in the day. It’s easier knowing I’ve got people around. Dunno. What about you?” Minho asks.

The whole reply catches Thomas so off guard that somehow, the truth slips out, as if on accident. It’s the first time in a while that he’s said the name out loud, and it feels like he’s doing something wrong by using it. “I was thinking about Newt.”

A heavy silence follows. Thomas can’t remember many times Minho’s been rendered speechless. Then, Minho’s sitting, and Thomas is regretting having spoken.

“What about him?” Minho asks, except his face has dropped, and his voice has gone weaker. 

“What he… what he meant,” Thomas says. He huffs before he can form the words. “To me, I guess.” 

“What he meant? He was our glue. He kept us sane, kept us together. Kept us  _ hoping.  _ And from coming for each other’s throats,” Minho says. 

“I-I know that, I just—” How is Thomas supposed to explain himself out loud to Minho when he hasn’t even been able to think about it himself? Minho furrows his eyebrows. “He kept me going. When I was lost, he was there.” 

“Yeah,” Minho says. “Sometimes I wish I took advantage of that more. Having him.”

Thomas only nods. He has no idea.

It’s a while before they speak again. The nice thing about Minho is that as untrue as this may seem, he really does know when to keep his mouth shut. Thomas loves him for it. If there’s anything else keeping him together here, it’s him. Being runners in the maze together, no matter how short lived, forms a bond that can’t be described. It’s an unspoken connection, created in your interest to survive. But even then, outside of it, you can still read each other’s minds in a way. 

“You know what you meant to him, right?”

Thomas looks at Minho. He hasn’t seen him this sincere in a while. Maybe since they got to the safe haven. “I think that’s part of what I’m trying to figure out.”

Minho actually smiles, despite it all. “You know, I knew him better than almost anyone. Maybe I wasn’t here for a while, but I know what I saw when we were all together.”

“You and Brenda could have a nice little meeting about it,” Thomas says, earning a laugh. 

“Listen, Newt was a man of few words at times. Always smart, always a leader, always lending a hand, but he never talked about how he  _ really  _ felt. He did, however, have the most expressive face in the world,” Minho says, not looking quite  _ at  _ the sea but rather past it, like he can see Newt’s face somewhere in the distance. “I was thankful for that. He couldn’t lie to me—not that he didn’t try.” 

“What’d you see?” Thomas asks. “I mean, of course, I know I could see things, but—”

“Relax. I know what you meant,” Minho says. He meets Thomas’ eyes, and Thomas struggles to keep his gaze from falling. “Newt needed something to make him think there was a point in fighting, and that was you. You let him fight the people that took it away from him.”

Thomas nods. “You did the same, though, Minho.”

“Me? No way. I was right there with him, and we both knew it,” Minho says. “Can I tell you something he’d absolutely kill me for saying?”

His instincts want him to jump at the opportunity and say yes, but Thomas hesitates. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Would he want me to know?”

“He didn’t want  _ anyone  _ to know, and if you weren’t such an oblivious shank, you would have seen it yourself,” Minho says. 

Thomas’ chest constricts, and his brain seems to be filled with some sort of molasses. Here it is again. A repeat of Brenda. “What was it?” 

He holds his breath as he waits for Minho to confirm his suspicions.

“Newt had a massive crush on Alby.”

_ “What?”  _

Minho laughs again, shaking his head. “It was clear as day. Nobody even had to mention it. He was like a lost puppy with him. I think you and Alby are the only two people who didn’t see it—I guess Newt had a type.”

“What’s  _ that  _ supposed to mean?”

Minho continues like he didn’t hear Thomas’ comment. “He never would have done anything about it. There wasn’t any time. Actually, even if there  _ was,  _ he probably still wouldn’t. But then you came along.”

Thomas knits his eyebrows together, fighting back against a rising feeling in his chest. “Me?”

“No, Frypan.  _ Yes,  _ you,” Minho says. “You were just annoying at first, but then you pulled that stunt in the maze. After that, even if he didn’t let on, Newt idolized you in a way. He even told me and a few of the others to keep our eyes on you, make sure nobody tried anything.” 

“He did that?” Thomas asks. 

“More than that. He wouldn’t shut up about you, even to Alby. Then it was little things. Most of the time he’d look at me like he was already bored before I started speaking, but you…” Minho trails off. 

“Why did he believe in me so much?” Thomas asks, his voice breaking.

“Dude, he was in  _ love  _ with you,” Minho says. This time, Thomas has no choice but to let his reaction show. His heart lurches, and he’s stunned into silence. “I can vouch for that. It wasn’t like Alby. This was different. I know he loved me—he loved all of us. But you were  _ hope  _ to him. You were his future, and I know that he’s happy to have gotten any of it with you.”

That’s it. After all these weeks, this proves to be Thomas’ breaking point. The thing that finally makes the pot boil over. 

At first, he’s not even sure who he’s crying for. Maybe even  _ what.  _ This hasn’t technically changed anything. Or maybe it has. Maybe it’s taken something away from him that he wasn’t even aware he’d had. Just another lost future that was so close—too close, even. 

Minho holds him as he cries, and he holds him tighter as cries turn into sobs and every moment with Newt plays back in his head in a new light. Every word holds a different meaning, and suddenly, he can hear them all clear as day. 

There’s no point in sitting here wondering how Thomas felt about Newt, is there? He’s gone, what would it do now? 

But Thomas knows thats a lie. He owes this to both Newt and himself. Maybe he wouldn’t want that. For Thomas to dwell on this. But he should give him that anyway, shouldn’t he?

“There was so much going on,” Thomas chokes out. He doesn’t need to continue for Minho to get it.

“You don’t think he knew that? Even if you said something first, he’d have smacked you upside the head for thinking about it,” Minho says. 

Whatever solace Thomas tries to find in Minho’s words is swallowed by the helplessness of the situation. “It’s not fair that he didn’t get to live his life. He could have had that now, he could have been here.” Thomas holds onto Minho for dear life, his chin resting on his shoulder, his hands balled into fists on Minho’s back.

“You aren’t the flare, you aren’t WCKD. You didn’t do this to him, so quit acting like you did,” Minho says, any of the toughness behind his words being drained away by the crystal clear despair. 

“I could have prevented it, Min,” Thomas says. “If I could go back, I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat.”

“Hey,” Minho says, pulling back. Thomas sniffles, aware of how pathetic the scene must look but not finding the pride to care. “Don’t ever say that. He wouldn’t want that.” 

“Of course he wouldn’t,” Thomas says. He wipes at his eyes, then his hand finds the necklace. It’s a habit of his, fumbling with it. Minho watches, but thankfully doesn’t ask. Thomas knows what this necklace means. He knows what this letter means now, too. Every word of it. “I loved him too.” 

Minho merely nods his head once, squeezing Thomas’ shoulder. “I know. And he knew, too.” 

Another tear falls. “You think so?” 

“Yeah. I do,” Minho says. “You know, he used to have Fry set aside food for him.”

Thomas is temporarily confused by the subject change. “What do you mean?”

“Newt was picky. So every time the box would bring up more food, he’d pick things of his own and make a box of them to give to Fry with a fake label and everything. Grew his own stuff, too. He was neurotic like that; called the rest of us animals all the time.” 

Thomas forces a smile, even if the story hurts. “That sounds like him.”

As Minho goes on, it occurs to Thomas that maybe Newt wouldn’t care if he could remember things like how his accent would get thicker when he was nervous, or the exact way his hair would get messed up in the wind, or the shape of his lips when he smiled. 

So as they sit there, trading stories, Thomas can only think of one thing. He was here. Loyal, particular, wise, funny, respected, comforting, selfless, brave—it’s written in every memory, etched in every word he spoke, felt by everyone who loved him.

And he knew it now. He could only hope Newt knew it too, because Thomas will never let himself forget it.

He did love Newt. Of course, he did. 

And he would live for him, too. 


End file.
